Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me novel Chapter 206

Chapter 206

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Two years later.

I’m going to throw up.

No–scratch that. I’m going to throw up, pass out, and spontaneously combust in front of a jury of world–renowned designers and the one woman whose opinion could make or break everything I’ve worked toward for the past two years.

“Relax, April,” Lara drawls, perfectly calm, lounging on the narrow bench of the dressing area, managing to make a silk robe and fuzzy slippers look elegant.

Her hair is in rollers, her face already perfectly done. “You’re going to sweat through your top. Again.”

I whirl on her. “I can’t relax. This isn’t just some show. It’s the final presentation. My last assignment. The make–or–break moment. And Lily Ellington is out there. Lily.”

Lara shrugs. “I dunno, I prefer to call her Mom.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh shut up.”

She laughs. “April, do you know why Mom is part of the judges?”

I shrug. “Because she’s a freaking superstar.”

“Because she knows talent when she sees it. And she clocked you two years ago, and that’s before you studied under the best professors the fashion world has to offer.” She shakes her head. “Lily Ellington makes no wrong choices, and she already chose you.”

I groan and collapse onto the bench beside Lara. “Exactly. So if I mess this up, I’m letting her down. I’m letting myself down.”

She sighs and turns to me, suddenly serious. “April, look at me.”

I do.

“This collection–it’s you. Every thread, every cut, every damn seam. You worked yourself raw for this. And now you’ve got a top model”— she winks, tapping her chest-“walking your final piece. You’ve already won, babe. Now go remind them why they let you into this program in the first place.”

I blink hard and nod, pulling her into a hug before the coordinator bursts in, headset askew. “Farrah? You’re up third.”

***

The air inside the venue buzzes with hushed excitement and barely–contained nerves.

It’s an old train depot transformed into an industrial–chic runway space, all exposed beams, polished concrete, and a stretch of spotlight- drenched platform cutting down the middle.

The audience is packed–industry giants, editors, faculty, alumni, and photographers flanking either side with cameras poised.

21:16 Thu, Oct 23

Chapter 206

Somewhere in the third row, I spot Julian, notebook open, sleek black pen tapping his lower lip as he scans the program.

L’Officiel gave him the piece on the IFM final–year show, and he’s promised to cover it “objectively,” which, coming from him, means overenthusiastically biased.

Nathan’s further back, tall and golden in a grey suit that makes him look like some business–executive fantasy.

He got his MBA from Harvard last year, and since then, we’ve made Paris our home. He consults for Élan Vert, a sustainability–driven fashion group based here.

They basically buy up smaller brands and help them scale without compromising on ethics. Safe to say, Nathan is big on ethics.

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Sometimes, knowing that he only got his MBA to please his father–who’s sitting pretty in federal prison, might I add–and he’s probably working in the fashion industry because of me, I worry that Nathan’s not truly happy.

But then he cradles my face in his hands, presses his forehead against mine, and assures me that his life is fulfilled as long as I’m in it.

I would be overwhelmed by that responsibility if I didn’t feel the exact same way.

If by some tragedy, I lost fashion the way he lost football, I would still find a way to be happy as long as I never lose him.

He catches my eye and winks–cool, collected, proud–and my heart skips a wild beat. I wish I could rush across the room and throw myself into his arms so he could hold me and tell me that everything will be okay, and I’ll kill it.

“Next up,” the announcer’s voice echoes, “April Farrah, presenting Resurgence.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

Spotlight. Music. Movement.

The first look steps out–structured, minimal, sleek. A tailored cocoon coat in ivory wool with razor–sharp seams. Then a draped two–piece in burnt rust and dusk–blue silk, layered like sediment.

And finally–Lara.

She owns the runway. Hair swept into a loose updo, cheekbones catching the light, eyes fierce. She walks like the floor belongs to her, like she was born in the dress.

And the dress,

It’s the culmination of everything I’ve fought through. Midnight black, cut on the bias, molded to the body like a second skin. The skirt flares ever so slightly, each step catching hidden panels of organza dyed in gradients of sunrise–peach, coral, soft flame. The back dips into a low V, framed by hand–beaded accents that glimmer like constellations.

The final pose holds. Cameras flash. Applause follows.

And then someone cues me to the mic.

I knew I’d have to speak, but now that the moment comes, all I can think about is: throw up, pass out, combust.

21:16 Thu, Oct 23

Chapter 206

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